


Care

by Mix Stitch (Synph)



Category: DCU, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synph/pseuds/Mix%20Stitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim still doesn't expect Jason to be there when he gets in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care

Jason is up when Tim eventually staggers in from patrol near dawn with drying blood soaking through the sleeve of his shirt and the wounds from another night of patrol still raw, red, and uncared for.

It’s early enough that the few good little Gothamites are still in bed, but Jason is wide awake and eagle-eyed, staring at Tim as though he can x-ray him with that alone.

Tim doesn’t know why it always surprises him a little, why it shakes him a bit to realize for the nth time that Jason worries about him enough to wake up in the early hours of dawn for when Tim comes in.

 Even though it has been several months of this, several dozen nights of Tim coming in bruised and bloody from fights and falling under Jason’s care, Tim still can’t get used to the careful way that Jason looks after him when he comes in after Gotham City reporters have been blasting with news of some battle or another all night. Even with the fact that they share a bed most nights of the week looming over his shoulder, Tim just... Tim just can’t stop expecting otherwise and he can’t make himself stop it even when his head

“You look like hell,” Jason says, eyes narrowing as he watches Tim’s hands go to the buttons of his baggy jeans.

He doesn’t miss a thing, not the way that Tim is staunchly refusing to put much of his weight on his left leg or the fact that Tim’s hands aren’t exactly steady, and when Tim silently takes the comment instead of firing back with a zinger of his own, Jason pushes up from his seat on the couch with a worried expression on his face. “Come here and let me help.”

Before Tim can do more than limp in the direction of the couch, Jason reaches him and then urges him to take a seat on the ratty brown recliner that Tim hardly ever sits in unless he’s hurt past the point of protesting.

Tim manages to get out an affronted-sounding, “I _can_ walk, you know!” as he’s manhandled, but then Jason gets his fingers on one of Tim’s bigger bruises and Tim’s breath pushes out of his chest in a choked-off sound of pain.

Jason narrows his eyes at Tim. “Where’s your knife, Tim,” he asks before Tim can go back to his tried and true method of simply pretending he’s fine until he can lick his wounds in private. “I don’t know how the hell you got your clothes on to head out here, but I’m cutting them off for you.”

“I like my shirt,” Tim says, snapping a little because he hasn’t slept in almost twenty-four hours and on top of that, his shirt (a long-sleeved gray t-shirt with the logo for a local band screen-printed across Tim’s chest) is one of a kind. It’s not like he can go out and find the band’s merchandise all over the city. Not since he had the dubious honor of delivering two-thirds of the band’s members to the GCPD for robbery two months before...

Tim scowls when Jason stays there on his knees and glowers at him as though this whole thing is _his_ fault (like Tim just asks for criminals to try and beat the crap out of him. _Ugh._ ). He jerks his head to the side so that he doesn’t have to look at Jason’s judging eyes and then makes himself breathe through the pain because well... moving so fast with the pain he’s already in isn’t Tim’s best idea.

“Use your own knife if you want to cut my shirt off of me,” Tim snaps, making to cross his arms over his chest to greater express his anger before he remembers how much such a gesture will hurt. “I lost mine.”

“You lost your knife,” Jason repeats slowly, sounding like he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. “I gave you that knife when you moved in with me. It was a present.” Jason doesn’t yell. A muscle in his cheek jumps like he’s seconds away from going out and finding Tim’s knife, but he doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even raise his voice in the slightest. “I hope you managed to lose it in some punk’s leg at the very least.”

Tim rolls his eyes when Jason isn’t looking and says, “Probably.”

“Good,” Jason says, not looking at Tim’s face so that he can focus instead on undoing the knots of the other man’s shoelaces. “If you can move, there should be some shears in the side of the cushion. Try the left side.” Jason pauses to tug off Tim’s sneakers with a careful application of his strength and then he looks up at Tim. “Your left,” he says as though Tim isn’t already digging around on that side of the couch, “Not mine.”

Tim almost rolls his eyes again, but then his fingers curl around the plastic handle of the shears and he all but _shoves_ them at Jason. Even that leaves Tim in pain, shivering as sweat dampens his forehead enough that it’s noticeable in the blast of air coming from the AC unit. He curls his fingers into the soft fabric-covered arm of the chair and works on breathing.

Jason pauses with the shears already cutting a line into one of the legs of Tim’s pants.

“I’m going to get you pain meds,” Jason says in a firm tone that holds no room for Tim to argue like usual. “Alfred sent over some of the good stuff last time I took a spill during a bike chase. I know you hate being on meds, but if you can’t even get mad at me without being in pain...”  Jason shrugs easily and then stands up easily, towering over Tim even more than usual as he continues talking. “You need the meds and some of Leslie’s tea.”

Tim blinks. “You’re offering to make me tea?”

“And get you good and high on pain meds, but I see what you’re into,” Jason says, cracking a smile when Tim manages to roll his head back enough to look at his face. He reaches out and pushes the sweaty black strands of Tim’s hair off his forehead so that he can check for a fever. “If you’re good and promise to spend a few days in bed recovering, I’ll even go get you some of that spicy chicken soup from that Thai place you like.”

Tim nods his head and then immediately regrets it when black spots burst in front of his eyes.

Jason sucks his teeth. “I can’t believe that Alfred didn’t see how bad you were hurt,” he mutters, “How’d you get past Dick and everyone when you look like this? A stiff wind would blow you over, kid.”

“Stop calling me that,” Tim complains, “And I snuck out when everyone was fussing over Damian. It’s not hard to get out of the cave when I really want to.”

“Who do you think you're telling,” Jason replies with a smile and a shrug. He reaches for Tim like he wants to ruffle his hair and make his cowl-hair even worse, but stops himself midway. “Don’t go anywhere, Tim.”

“Like I could.”


End file.
